claws & chlorine
by kelly.rockwell
Summary: While in California, Puck decides to supplement his income by cleaning pools for some lonely ladies. His newest client? Jackson Whittemore's mom. It doesn't go as expected.


So Puck's plan of instant success in California hadn't exactly panned out like he'd expected.

But that's okay, because Noah Puckerman doesn't just lay down and die when things get a little rough. He's determined. He's resourceful.

And he knows where to get cheap pool gear.

He started out modestly, securing a few regular clients. The usual type. You know the ones. Divorcees both recent and not, the unhappily married; these are Puck's gals, and he thrives within their orbit. Give Puck your tired, your desolate, your despairing, but you can keep your poor.

He's gotta make that tip somehow, right?

It was his third time at one particular client's house. He'd spotted her at the grocery store and could practically smell the divorce on her. Well, that and some fancy-smelling perfume. Probably expensive. Naturally, he pounced.

She'd signed up for his services without even asking for references. Then again, the only references he usually needs are a waggle of his eyebrows and his muscles in a too-tight tee.

It was going smoothly. She hadn't made her move yet, but she was thinking about it. Puck can always tell when they're thinking about it. She was trying to hold out, but Puck could wait her out. His initial impression that she was loaded couldn't have been more right, and if he could just hang in there until she took the bait, he'd be looking at a fat tip just for giving her his fat-

"I know what you're trying to do," said a voice from directly behind him. It was so close he could feel the hot, angry breaths against his neck. "And it stops now."

Puck stopped skimming and turned around to find his client's pretty-boy son standing behind him, doing his best to look intimidating and authoritative.

What was his name? Jason? Jonathan?

Jackson.

Puck chuckled and waved a dismissive hand. "Listen, sweetheart, I don't make a habit of being intimidated by future male models. So how about you go and practice wearing cardigans or something, 'cause I'm working here."

Jackson took another step forward, looming on the very edge of Puck's personal space. Was this guy gonna fight him or kiss him?

"Last time I'm gonna tell you nicely," Jackson snarled, locking eyes with Puck. "Leave. And don't even think about coming back."

Damn, but the boy's eyes were such an intense shade of blue.

Puck shook his head and focused on the threat he'd just been given. He'd heard it before, mostly from dipshit husbands who'd finally wised up to what he was doing with their wives. Never from a son before. But hey, there's a first time for everything.

Then again, this would also be the first time he'd invested time in a client that didn't pay out.

How about a big, juicy 'no' to that.

Puck leaned in, because he could do it, too, and smirked his best 'you don't bother me one bit' smirk at the blonde.

"And what if I don't do that?" Puck asked, but it wasn't really a question. No chance he was leaving without getting what he'd put so much sweat and low-slung shorts into.

Jackson's snarl turned from human to something else. His teeth grew into fangs—freaking fangs, man!—and the blue of his eyes intensified to an impossibly brighter hue. There were tufts of hair where they hadn't been, and his forehead pinched between his eyebrows, enhancing his sinister glare.

"Get out," Jackson growled, shoving at his chest forcefully with a clawed hand.

"What the-" Puck stammered, managing to grab his keys and wallet before scrabbling out of the backyard to his truck.

"Fuck was that," he finished, resting his forehead against the steering wheel as he caught his breath.

Shakily, he drove himself home, wondering all the way if he'd really seen what he thought he'd just seen, or if it was possible that slightly expired gas station sushi could cause hallucinations.

I mean, sure, he'd heard stories about the town since he'd moved into the area. But to actually believe there were real werewolves running around Beacon Hills? It seemed a little far-fetched.

Still, Puck couldn't deny what he'd seen. Fangs. Claws. The shift that happened right before his eyes. And yeah, it had been initially weird, if not downright terrifying, but the more Puck thought about it, the more he kind of wanted to know more.

Because, like, the dude threatened him and then wolfed out, but he didn't hurt him. He maybe could have, probably, whatever. But he hadn't.

Plus, Puck left his pool-cleaning gear. And while he knew how to sweet talk a good deal on pH test kits and chlorine tablets and skimmers, they still cost money that he didn't have.

So that was it. Screw Fido, he was going back for his stuff.

He showed up the next day, all business as usual. Changed the filter, checked the pH and added some chlorine. All the things he should've done yesterday, but had been so callously deterred.

Puck felt the eyes on him before he saw them. He had a sixth sense for when he was being watched. Only this time, the scorching gaze didn't belong to a cougar.

It belonged to a wolf.


End file.
